


Knowing

by violaceum_vitellina_viridis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2019-04-14 08:58:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14132646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violaceum_vitellina_viridis/pseuds/violaceum_vitellina_viridis
Summary: Dean doesn't know that Sam knows.





	Knowing

**Author's Note:**

> You have to squint real hard to see the angst in this, so if you're worried about that, don't be.
> 
> I've done my best, but please let me know if you spot any errors!
> 
> Inspired entirely by Ninni, holdmesamthatwasbeautiful, on Tumblr. She wrote a mildly angsty piece that I loved and hated in equal measure and wanted a continuation of, so I wrote one. Her piece is here: https://holdmesamthatwasbeautiful.tumblr.com/post/167781960321/dean-knows-how-to-kill-he-knows-how-to-stitch
> 
> I dont think you HAVE to read hers, but you'll get where the cadence and feel of this comes from if you do.

  Dean doesn’t know that Sam knows. Sam knows that Dean has probably convinced himself that Sam doesn’t know anything.

  Dean knows a lot, more than Sam sometimes, but he doesn’t know everything _about Sam_ . Sure, Dean knows most of it - he knows the important things, like how splashing straight rubbing alcohol on Sam’s wounds gives him hives, the stuff he _needs_ to know, and of course he knows a lot of the little things, like how Sam takes his coffee. But he doesn’t know _everything,_ and that’s an important distinction.

  Because Dean doesn’t know that Sam knows what he’s thinking right now. Yeah, he’s still half-asleep, and he’s going on about a case, but that’s mostly mindless; he had all of this memorized by last night, when he was reading it, because that’s what he does. Easier to survive if you don’t give yourself the chance to overthink it. He knows Dean’s mind is elsewhere - in a sense, at least, because actually Dean’s mind is on him, just not on what he’s saying. Sam can tell, because Dean’s eyes are distant, like he’s not really listening - because he’s not - but he’s staring right at Sam’s face.

  His mouth, specifically, but Sam assumes Dean doesn’t really realize he’s being that obvious.

  See, Sam has known about this for...a while. Maybe not before he went to college, though he had inklings then, too, and maybe not immediately after he came back, but he’s known. He doesn’t recall if there was ever a moment of realization or if it just came slowly, gradually, through the years. But he does know.

  The other thing Dean doesn’t know is that Sam is the same.

  Has been since….well, ever. Sam doesn’t remember a time that he wasn’t in love with his brother, though he does remember when it stopped being mostly brotherly hero worship and started being _love,_ the romantic kind, the _sexual_ kind. He was fifteen, they were in Ohio for all three summer months without John, and Sam had never hated himself more, but it’s a memory for a different day. He’s mostly over the self-hate about it, now, anyway. Especially since he knows that Dean’s the same.

  When Dean asks, “How do we stop it?”, Sam knows that he’s not talking about the case. He answers about the case anyway, and sees Dean get even more distant, something in him going a little cold. Sam doesn’t know what that’s about, isn’t sure he wants to know, but he sees Dean do it occasionally. Usually during moments like this, when Sam can tell Dean’s thinking about him, or _them_.

  It’s getting more frequent, though, and it rubs Sam the wrong way every time. Dean’ll come out of it, he always does, but it’ll be an hour at least and Sam hates it when he’s distant like that. Hates that he doesn’t know for sure what it’s about (he can guess, but that hurts too much), and that he doesn’t know how to fix it.

  Today, though, he’s mostly just...tired of it. He doesn’t want to spend the next hour or more getting nothing but grunts out of Dean, doesn’t want to have to rehash this case three or four times before Dean really tunes in, doesn’t want to dance around what he knows is on Dean’s mind nearly every morning like this. Doesn’t want to keep dancing around _this,_ everything between them, everything Dean thinks that Sam doesn’t know. They’ve been doing the dance for years, and maybe Sam is the only one who realizes they’re both doing it, but it’s still been years and it’s...exhausting. Sam knows it’s only because Dean has an absolutely iron will that he hasn’t given in yet (even if Dean would argue that he’s weak, Sam knows better), and Sam’s...mostly just scared. Tired, and scared. He knows Dean feels the same, that they’re on the same page with this like they are everything else in their lives, but that doesn’t mean Dean is _okay_ with it.

  But they’re at a point that Sam’s exasperation and desire are outweighing his fear, so when Dean stands to properly get dressed, continue the rest of his shutdown, Sam stops him.

  “Are we going to do this forever, Dean?” Sam asks. Dean pauses, turns, cocks his head to the side. Sam does his best not to smile - it’s a quirk Dean picked up from Cas, and it’s adorable for both the motion itself and that Dean hasn’t realized yet that he does it.

  “What, Sammy?” Dean asks, and his voice is...wrong. Just, off. Sam’s the only person in the world, save for maybe Bobby if he were still around, or Cas, that could tell.

  Sam sighs and stands, rounding the tiny kitchenette table to stand in front of Dean. A little closer than usual, which is pretty damn close, on purpose.

  Sam decides that subtlety isn’t his friend here. “I know, Dean. About, well,” Sam gestures between them, “you. And that you...want me.”

  Dean doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t change his breathing. Sam _feels_ him freeze despite it. But he doesn’t step back, and Sam doesn’t move, either.

  “What do you mean, Sammy?”

  Sam pushes his hair out of his face where it keeps falling, watches Dean track the movement. “You’ve spent the whole time we’ve been sitting here looking at my mouth. And this isn’t the first time, either, and I know you’re thinking about it, want something from me. Want me, in general.”

  Dean swallows and then shudders, but still doesn’t move away. Sam gets a little bolder, inches a bit closer. They’re practically touching now; Sam can feel the heat coming off of his brother, can smell Dean’s morning-and-coffee breath.

  “Wouldn’t do anything, Sam,” Dean breathes the words, sounds almost wounded, and Sam’s gut twists. God, he knew Dean was beating himself up about it - he knows his brother, knows Dean beats himself up over every little thing - but hearing Dean say that, hearing Dean all but admit everything and sound so broken about it….

  Sam reaches out, wraps one hand around Dean’s hip. Knows that movement probably gets his point across - Dean’s always been more about actions and body language - but wants to use his words anyway.

  “Want you to,” he says, and knows Dean will hear the double word, _to_ and _too._ He means both. Somewhere inside of him, his fifteen-year-old self is shaking apart, but he ignores the nerves. Keeps his hand on Dean’s hip, his eyes trained on Dean’s face, even though Dean is looking slightly past him.

  Dean finally makes eye contact, and Sam can see tears, and Sam swears he can feel something snap. He doesn’t know what it is, yet. But something fundamental just shifted.

  “How long?” Dean asks, and he doesn’t have to clarify. Sam knows exactly what he’s asking.

  He lets the memories surface this time. _Summer sun and Dean swimming in the lake out behind the half-caved in “cabin” they were stuck in, perpetually half-naked and always grinning, covered in more and more freckles every day. Sam, tanned, but still gangly and awkward with too-long hair, hardly anything to look at, who couldn’t stop watching his brother like he hung the moon and stars._ “I was fifteen,” he says, easily. “We were in Ohio.”

  Something flickers across Dean’s face, almost like fondness, gone before Sam can really place the emotion.

  “I was fifteen, too,” he murmurs. “Oklahoma.”

  Sam flashes back, without even realizing he remembers, to a motel room somewhere near Oklahoma’s border with Arkansas, a stop off on their way to New Mexico, John hunting a ghoul. John had decided that they were too old to be sharing a bed if it wasn’t absolutely necessary two years earlier. That motel room, inexplicably nautical-themed, was when Dean started enforcing the decision. At the time, Sam hadn’t been too broken up about it; he was coming into his teenage years a bit early, starting to get stubborn and surly, and was entirely too mad at John just in general to notice Dean’s distance. But he had noticed, a few months later, when he’d had a nightmare and Dean had comforted him (because of course he had), but tucked him back into his own bed, taking no argument about Sam staying in his. He’d been confused. It made sense, now.

  Dean’s face is blank again, that distance starting to creep back into his eyes, and Sam realizes that it’s guilt.

  “Dean,” he says, soft but firm. Dean doesn’t respond for a second, but then he looks, makes eye contact. Sam shakes hair out of his eyes and decides it’s now or never.

  “I’m going to kiss you,” he announces. He leans in, slow enough that Dean can get away, but Dean doesn’t move. His eyes widen a little as Sam gets closer, but he doesn’t _move_ ; doesn’t back up, doesn’t turn away.

  Sam takes it as permission.

  The kiss is soft and dry, chaste. That doesn’t stop it from feeling like electricity is shooting up Sam’s spine, like his entire world shifts upside down in that moment. It’s the best thing Sam’s ever felt, including the high from demon blood, and it only gets better when Dean grabs at him, yanks him closer and holds his hips tight enough to bruise.

  Sam turns a little, breaks the kiss, rests his forehead on Dean’s. Dean’s eyes are still closed, but his fingers flex like he’s making sure Sam isn’t going anywhere. Sam doesn’t want to be anywhere but right here.

  “Sam?” Dean asks, barely even a breath.

  “Right here, Dean,” Sam murmurs in reply, cupping his brother’s jaw, marvelling at how small Dean looks against him. How big Sam looks against Dean. Sam figures he’ll never really adjust to it, no matter how many years pass, because Dean will always be _big brother._

  There’s a moment of silence, a mutual pause, before Dean speaks again. “...am I dreaming?” he asks, and Sam can’t manage to hold back his snort.

  “I hope not,” Sam says. “Don’t want to wake up if I am.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Sam?”

  “Yeah?”

  “...kiss me again.”

  Sam laughs, nudges his nose against Dean’s, and does just that. It’s more like a proper kiss this time; Dean’s hand slides all the way up to Sam’s hair and tangles there, holding, and they shift closer, pressed together from shoulders to knees, Sam’s thigh between Dean’s.

  It’s just as electric as it was the first time, even more so when Dean nips at Sam’s bottom lip, tugs it gently, before pulling back to look at him.

  Dean’s eyes are clear and bright, and Sam’s heart skips a beat, as ridiculous as it makes him feel. He leans in for another kiss instead of letting himself say something completely sappy, and Dean welcomes it, moans a little when the kiss deepens.

  Dean knows a lot of things, and he still doesn’t know everything about Sam, but he knows the most important thing now. Sam figures everything else can wait.


End file.
